


Let In the Sun

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 01:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10206032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: The thing was, even in the middle of a war, things weren't always a raging shitstorm.  The Howlies weren't always on the frontlines or, worse, behind them.  They didn't always have Hydra attacking them with weapons straight out of a Buck Rogers serial.  There weren't always Nazi panzer divisions threatening to flank their position.There were calm days, restful days.  There were days like this…Two golden days in the long friendship of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katharoses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katharoses/gifts).



> A Beefy Bucky Birthday Exchange gift for [samthebirdbae](http://samthebirdbae.tumblr.com).

#### Summer, 1944

The thing was, even in the middle of a war, things weren't always a raging shitstorm. The Howlies weren't always on the frontlines or, worse, behind them. They didn't always have Hydra attacking them with weapons straight out of a Buck Rogers serial. There weren't always Nazi panzer divisions threatening to flank their position.

There were calm days, restful days. There were days like this…

They were pulling back from a raid on a Hydra factory, looking for a place to regroup, when they found the village. There wasn't a place in France that hadn't been touched by the war, but to Bucky this village seemed more lightly trod upon than any other they'd seen. Its people were well fed, its children were wary but didn't run in terror at the approach of soldiers. You could almost pretend there was no war on, if not for the scorch marks on the barn at the edge of town, and the bullet holes in the church wall. If not for the fact that the only man under 50 was missing a leg, and the people working the fields were all young women and teenage girls.

A huddle of women had formed in the square as they strode through the village, and a matronly woman broke away from the group and cautiously approached them.

"Êtes-vous des américains?" she asked, her gaze darting nervously between them. Bucky didn't blame her. The Howlies were filthy and tired and weighed down by weapons, exactly the sort of people he imagined you wouldn't want in your town. Even Steve looked less like a boy scout and more like the hardened soldier he was.

" _Ils sont américains_ ," Dernier told her. " _Moi, je suis français_."

"Fuck, Dernier," Bucky said. "Don't go outta your way to point out you're not one of us, or anything." 

" _Non, non, non_ ," she said, her hands open and spread wide. "It's okay. We like Americans." Her English was accented but clear. "Would you…" She hesitated, her expression uncertain.

"It's okay, ma'am. You can ask us anything." Steve took off his helmet and used his best Captain America voice. The one that sounded calm and reassuring. Bucky figured that voice had gone down a treat on the war bonds circuit.

"Would you and your men care for some food?" the woman offered shyly.

That's how they all ended up in the town square, seated around makeshift tables of planks and sawhorses as the entire town came out to see _les américains_. The food was simple—fresh bread, soft cheeses, tomatoes still warm from the field—but it had more flavour than Bucky had ever experienced. Bucky watched Steve take a bite of a whole ripe tomato, the juice dripping down his chin and fingers. Bucky smiled as his teeth tore through a slice of crusty bread. K-rations were going to be worse than ever after this.

They were surrounded by laughter and chattering in both French and English. (Their chief hostess, Sabine, was the village school teacher, and had studied in England for a time. And the Howlies, except for Dum Dum who was utterly hopeless when it came to anything besides English, had picked up enough French to get by.)

As soon as they finished their lunch, they were swarmed by all the kids of the village, boys and girls alike, grabbing their hands and dragging them to the field beyond the scorched barn. "Allons-y! Allons, jouons au football!"

One of the older boys, a scrawny kid of around twelve with bony knees and tousled dark hair, produced a battered-looking soccer ball that had long ago stopped being entirely round. As Bucky watched, Monty's face lit up, and he grabbed the ball, working it across the field with his feet as Dernier and the children chased after him.

"Shit," said Dum Dum. "That ain't football." Throwing his hat on the sidelines (had Bucky ever seen him without that fucking hat before?) he chased after Monty and the ball, and then grabbed it and ran like he was the quarterback in a high school football game until Gabe and the kids tackled him to the ground, all of them laughing so hard Bucky could see tears in their eyes.

Sides were formed, Dernier and Monty leading one team, Dum Dum and Jim heading the other, with Gabe switching sides as he felt like it. It was football against _football_ , with no rules Bucky could figure out except that the kids would pile on whichever Howlie had the ball until he collapsed from the weight of giggling _enfants_.

Bucky didn't join in. He wasn't a fan of either kind of football. Baseball was his sport. Instead, he sat beside Steve, watching the game, his back against the wood of the scorched barn, his legs stretched out in front of him, enjoying the way the heat of the late afternoon sun soaked into his skin, his blood, his bones.

He swore to God, this was the first time he'd felt warm since Steve had pulled him out of that fucking Hydra factory. Winter was the worst. Last winter, any time they'd felt safe enough to risk a fire he'd been tempted to throw himself into the Goddamn thing so he didn't feel so cold anymore. But even in summer, he always felt the edge of a chill in his bones, as if Zola had injected ice into his veins along with all that other fucking poison.

But not today. Today his belly was full and there was no one shooting at him and he felt as if the sun had taken up a place in his chest, warming him all the way through.

As Dum Dum stole the ball away from Monty and scored a goal—or was it a touchdown?—Bucky sighed and let himself lean against Steve, let his head fall onto Steve's shoulder. Anyone else woulda pushed him away, but not Steve. Steve just shifted a bit so he could free up his sketching hand, looked up from his drawing, and gave Bucky a smile. It was the kind of smile Bucky hadn't seen on Steve's face in forever, not since London, not since Brooklyn even, and it warmed Bucky more than the sun.

"You comfortable?" Steve asked, not being an asshole about it at all, but sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "I'm glad you volunteered to be a science experiment. All these muscles make a nice pillow." He wriggled even closer into Steve, who rolled his eyes. 

"Jerk."

"Punk."

They jabbed their elbows into each other, but neither of them put any strength into it, and they settled back against the barn, Steve going back to sketching the Howlies' game, and Bucky gradually falling asleep to the sound of Steve's pencil scratching on paper and Gabe's shouts of triumph as he and Jim tackled Dum Dum.

When he woke the sun had almost completely sunk beneath the horizon and the Howlies were nowhere to be seen, but Steve was still there. His sketchbook and pencil sat beside him and he had his head craned to look at Bucky, a crooked grin on his face. 

"What? Am I droolin'?" Bucky wiped at the side of his mouth. It would be just like Steve to laugh at him looking like a chump.

"Nah. You're fine." Steve stood, then held out a hand to haul him to his feet. "C'mon. _Les madames et mademoiselles_ have put on a feast for us."

"Well, it would be impolite to keep 'em waiting." Bucky brushed off his pants as Steve tucked his sketchbook and pencil into his jacket pocket. "Let's go." He linked arms with Steve, and they headed back towards the centre of the village, where Bucky could already hear voices and laughing and singing.

Soon enough, there'd be German fuckers shooting at them, and Steve would be throwing himself into danger like the dumb ass he was. But right this second, Bucky felt warm and happy and was looking forward to whatever feast this village had made for them.

* * *

#### Summer, 2017

Bucky held the passport in his hand, and was struck by an overwhelming sense of panic. Which was stupid. The time for panic was over. After all, the Accords had been repealed, Wanda had gotten Hydra's triggers out of his head, T'Challa's engineers had built him a better arm, and now even the United States government had decided he was worthy of a full pardon and reinstated citizenship.

"You okay?" Steve's hand gripped his right shoulder, his hold warm and comforting.

He stared at the passport, "United States of America" stamped in gold on its cover.

"I don't want to go home," he blurted out. "Not to the States; not to Brooklyn," he clarified, in case Steve hadn't understood. After all, Bucky hadn't really had a home for over seventy years.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Steve said, his voice firm. It was his Captain America voice, Bucky realized. The voice that said he wasn't going to let any assholes push him or his friends around. Bucky remembered that voice from the war, and he'd heard it a lot since T'Challa thawed him out again. Mostly when some government mook had tried to convince him to surrender Bucky to good old American justice. "What do you want to do?"

Bucky was at a loss. He didn't know what he wanted to do. It had been so long since he'd had any sort of choice. But then he had a flash of memory, him and Steve doing sentry duty in a wood in Germany, talking about how they wanted to see the world.

It'd be nice, travelling with no war to drive his destination. No missions, no targets. Being able to go on a trip without body armour, without carrying an arsenal on his back.

"I wanna travel," he said.

Steve's hold on his shoulder tightened, and he smiled. Not his Captain America smile, the one that was too tight around his mouth and never got near his eyes. His Steve smile. The one that was open and caring and made Bucky feel like the sun had come out and was shining only for him.

"I think we can do that."

Steve talked to T'Challa, and the king gave them a battered but reliable Land Rover. With Sam and Natasha, they made their way across Africa, heading west towards the coast. (After being trapped in Wakanda for the better part of a year, Sam and Nat were as ready to travel as Bucky was.) Sam still needled Bucky constantly, but now it was the good-natured teasing of a friend. Natasha made the worst jokes ever; Bucky sometimes regretted apologizing for shooting her.

They wound through the continent, taking their time, the scenery breathtaking and the people open and friendly. They found half a dozen places where Bucky thought he'd be happy to stay, to make a life, but he kept moving.

In Cote d'Ivoire, they sold the Land Rover and booked passage on a ship heading to Marseille. The ship was a freighter with no luxuries or even extra space. He and Steve shared a cramped cabin with Sam, while Nat got her own. Bucky didn't mind the closed spaces, though. He spent most of his time on deck, watching whales breach the waves and sea birds skim the churning water looking for their next meal.

After the open spaces of Africa, Marseille's crowds and noise were too much for Bucky. They spent only enough time there to get a new car. Sam voted for an SUV, Steve suggested a Hummer for strategic reasons, but Nat finally disappeared and came back with a powder-blue Citroën DS.

"What the hell?" Sam asked.

"What?" she said as she pulled in front of their hotel. "It's classic _and_ spacious _and_ French."

"It's ridiculous," Steve said, a frown developing between his eyebrows.

"It's not very low key," Sam said.

"I love it." Bucky was sick of being low key. He took shotgun beside Nat and left the back seat to the two spoilsports.

"I know, right?" Nat gave him a grin, and Steve rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to regret ever introducing you two, aren't I?" Steve said.

"You didn't introduce us, pal."

"Yeah, Barnes tried to kill me all on his own." Nat gave him a wink, and Bucky managed not to even flinch. Even with her bad jokes, he liked Nat, almost as much as he liked Steve, and a little bit more than Sam.

They ate, drank, and hiked their way through France. They stayed in small _pensions_ and crumbling _chateaux_. Every day, Bucky felt more warmth soak into his bones, purging Hydra's cold.

Then, one morning, Steve was driving with Bucky in the front seat and Natasha and Sam sprawled in the back behind them when Bucky felt like he'd had a fist driven into his gut.

"Steve," he whispered, not quite sure if he should believe his senses.

"I see it."

"I don't see anything but a broke-down old barn," Sam complained.

Bucky's memory was like Swiss cheese, full of fucking holes. He couldn't remember important things, like what his sister looked like or where the apartment he'd shared with Steve had been, but he remembered this barn with scorch marks trailing up the side of its walls.

"Stop the car, Steve."

Bucky jumped out before the car came to a halt and ran over to the barn. He leaned against it, feeling its rough boards against his back, enjoying the feel of the sun-heated wood. He closed his eyes, and heard the sounds of children's laughter, and Dum Dum yelling at Gabe. ( _You're a Goddamn traitor, that's what you are, switching sides like that._ ) He heard the scratch of Steve's pencil on paper. He breathed in and smelled cut hay. 

He started at a touch on his elbow, and opened his eyes to find Steve at his side, looking somehow both worried and hopeful.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Bucky smiled. "I remember this village and the people and the soccer game and the dinner." He looked out at the field. "I remember it all."

Steve knew how he struggled to remember things, and he smiled at Bucky so hard, it looked like his face was going to split.

Sam picked that time to come over to where they stood.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Steve said, and Bucky could hear the catch in his voice. "It's just, we were here before. During the war."

"Oh," Sam said, as he walked back to the car. "Did you hear that, Nat?" he yelled back at the car. "They were here during the war."

"You mean that barn is even older than they are?" Nat yelled back. "Jesus, it must be fucking ancient!"

Bucky let himself slide down the wall of the barn and sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, watching as swallows swooped over the trees and bees buzzed around wildflowers. 

"Hey, Sam," Steve said. "We're going to hang out here for a bit. Catch." He threw the car keys to Wilson, then he sat down beside Bucky, leaning against his side like it was 1944 again.

They sat like that for an hour, watching the clouds scud across the sky, listening to the birds singing in the meadow.

"That was a good day, wasn't it?" Bucky finally said.

"Yeah, Buck, it was." Steve stood, and gave Bucky his hand, pulling him up into a hug. "And so is this."

They walked into the village, arm in arm, just like they had in 1944. This time, they found Nat and Sam sitting at a table outside the village's one café, talking to a man who looked nearly as old as the barn.

"Steve." Sam waved them over. "You've got to meet Henri. His daughter runs the café."

"He told us his mom was the teacher here during the war." Natasha's mouth quirked at the corners in the way that Bucky had learned meant he was about to be dropped into a mess for her amusement. "We told him our friends were here during the war."

"Yes, but…" Henri frowned as he looked at them. "You are young men. Surely you meant their fathers were here. Or their grandfathers…" His voice trailed off, and Bucky saw the shocked recognition form on his face. " _Mon dieu. Ce n'est pas possible_!" 

" _Oui, c'est vrai_ ," Steve said. The punk's French always had been better than Bucky's.

"Mon ami, Jean-Paul, he always insisted you were _Capitaine Amérique_ , but I thought it was, how do you say, wishful thinking." He stared at Steve, mouth open and eyes wide. 

Bucky automatically put himself slightly in front of Steve and started noting where Sam had left the car, where the exit points from the square were. If this old man caused too much of a fuss… 

"But this is wonderful!" Henri's expression went from shock to delight in about a second. "We must celebrate. Marie! Marie, there is someone you must meet." He bustled back into the café.

And that was how Bucky once again found himself sitting at a makeshift table in the town square. Henri was at the head of the table, joined by many of the kids who'd played soccer with the Howlies so many years ago, senior citizens now, surrounded by their own children and grandchildren. Bucky bet there were even a few great-grandkids tearing around the square.

Sam and Nat sat across from him, both of them beaming at the attention they were getting from young and old as the friends of _Capitaine Amérique_.

Best of all, Steve was still at his side, passing him pans of ratatouille and filling his wine glass and looking at him like he hung the moon. 

As the sun went down, the square was lit by torches, and the warmth of the day took on the chill of night. But Bucky didn't feel the cold. Not anymore. 

Steve was his sun. Steve had brought light to his darkness, had melted Hydra's ice in his bones. Steve had given him this brave new future, and Bucky wouldn't let anyone—not governments or armies or crazy science fiction villains—part them again.


End file.
